Casting Off

by P. I. Paris

  ‘There’s something I want you to consider and I don’t expect an answer quickly,’ he said. ‘We’ve had so many years apart that I would like you to think about moving to a home near us. I understand it would be a big step, but I can help with the financial side if that’s an issue.’

  Joyce didn’t answer straight away, partly because she was trying not to burst into tears.

  ‘Whatever happens in the future, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that suggestion,’ she said, then began crying. ‘Now look at me! I was trying so hard not to do this. Silly old woman.’

  ‘Do you think I haven’t cried? I’ve done it every single time I’ve been alone after dropping you off. Sometimes I haven’t even made it out of the car park.’

  ‘And I’ve only just made it to my bedroom. There have been a couple of occasions when I nearly didn’t get to the dining room for supper, which shows how serious it’s been.’

  He laughed and she dried her eyes on a tissue.

  ‘We need to start back or you’ll miss your supper because we’re too late.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I eat too much as it is.’

  ‘But we do need to set off before we lose all the light.’

  He sensed she had something to say, so held back from starting the engine.

  ‘I did want to ask one more thing,’ she said.

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Does Amy know how I used to make my living?’

  ‘No, Mum. It’s not because I’m ashamed or anything like that, but it wasn’t my secret to tell and revealing such details would have served no purpose.’

  But Joyce was crying again, because without even realising it George had just called her ‘Mum’.

  Fifty Five

  Dorothy and Joyce sat at the front of the lecture room, staring at the banks of empty seats facing them. The drama teacher, who had brought them along from the school’s reception desk, had explained that there would be three classes attending, making about eighty pupils.

  ‘Please don’t be put off if we have to eject a few early on,’ he said cheerfully, as if keeping the number to a handful was a great achievement. ‘We have some students who won’t be able to sit for more than about five minutes.’

  ‘What’s wrong with them?’ asked Joyce, baffled at such a statement.

  ‘Why, nothing of course. It’s just how they are. There’ll be plenty of staff. We’ll be watching them, rather than you, and will get individuals out of the hall with as little disruption as possible. Just don’t let it put you off. You’ll have forty-five minutes, so if you could keep going until the bell rings that would be appreciated.’

  ‘What happens if we finish early?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Ah, yes . . . in that situation they can get a bit riotous. Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ he said, before leaving to organise some tea to go with the plate of biscuits that was already on the table.

  ‘What have we done?’ said Dorothy, now quite horrified at the prospect of what lay before them. Joyce was there to help answer questions, not give the talk. ‘I thought it would be a dozen or so at most. I can’t do this.’

  ‘It’s too late to back out now.’

  ‘I don’t want any of these,’ said Dorothy, moving the plate past the microphone and further along the table. ‘I’m feeling more than a little queasy as it is.’

  ‘I’ll not have any, thanks,’ said Joyce, pushing it to the far end. She didn’t miss the surprised look. ‘The truth of it is, I have something to live for now, so I’m going to take better care of myself. I want to at least be around to see my granddaughters grow into young women. You know, George asked me to consider moving to a care home near to him and his family . . . mine now, I guess. I still can’t believe it.’

  ‘Will you?’ asked Dorothy, fearing the loss of someone whose company she enjoyed so much.

  ‘It’s very appealing, but I don’t think so. All my friends are at We Care For You. It’s probably best if he comes to Scotland for holidays and we all get to know each other gradually, over time. Then perhaps we’ll see.’

  At that moment the door opened and a stream of students filed into the hall. The two women watched with increasing awe as row upon row of seats were filled with fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, more than one looking as if they were from another planet.

  ‘This is a bit scary,’ said Joyce.

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to use the facilities.’

  ‘You’ll have to hang on. It’s all in your mind.’

  ‘No, that’s not where it is.’

  When the hall was full, the teacher introduced the visitors and instructed everyone to show their appreciation and then to pay attention. The rather reluctant applause died down quickly and Dorothy stared as if mesmerised by the faces. The notes that Miss Ross and she had prepared so carefully over the previous four evenings lay untouched on the table. The silence dragged on and a few boys started to fidget.

  ‘Say something,’ whispered Joyce.

  ‘I can’t read the notes.’

  ‘Once you get going you’ll be fine.’

  ‘No, I won’t. I’ve brought the wrong glasses!’

  The disturbance grew, one boy saying something that had those around him laughing. A teacher indicated for them to be quiet.

  ‘I want . . .’

  ‘Use the microphone,’ said Joyce, pushing it closer.

  ‘I want . . . to tell you a story,’ started Dorothy again. ‘About the Reverend McBain’s cockerel . . .’

  Fifty Six

  Snow began to fall during the first week of November and by the third day there was a deep covering outside. While many people wanted to remain indoors, where the precisely controlled temperature was always on the warm side, a surprisingly large number informed Ben over breakfast that they would like to go into the garden and build a snowman!

  Dorothy and Miss Ross sat at their usual table in the dining room, the former still making little soldiers out of her toast, although she had long since given up trying to make any impression with them on her boiled eggs.

  ‘I gather Walter will be away for another couple of days sorting out his bungalow,’ she said, digging out a spoonful of solid yoke. ‘He’ll really be missed when he eventually goes.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s marvellous that he’s recovered so much to be able to live independently again,’ replied Miss Ross. ‘I don’t imagine that happens often.’

  ‘None of us knows what’s around the corner, not even here where you tend to expect life to revolve around a routine. At least, I used to feel that.’

  ‘I don’t think any of us can say our lives are routine these days. There’s another group of students due later on. Perhaps they’ll help build the snowman.’

  ‘And I’ve received a letter this morning asking me to speak at another school in a couple of weeks’ time,’ said Dorothy. ‘I can’t believe so many people want to hear anything I have to say.’

  ‘It’s your fault for doing so well the first time.’

  ‘Oh, don’t. I still have nightmares about turning up with the wrong glasses and all of the work we have done together being wasted.’

  ‘Perhaps not entirely. Anyway, I gather you bewitched the entire audience within minutes. In all my years of teaching, I’ve never experienced a standing ovation from a group of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. It sounds to me as though you have a new career.’

  ‘I don’t think I had one in the first place.’

  The students arrived at ten, just as people were putting on their coats, hats and gloves. Several residents had sat down in the conservatory to watch the activities through the large windows. As if to mark the occasion the snow had stopped falling and the sun shone brilliantly.

  * * *

  Mrs O’Reilly was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when someone knocked softly at the door. Moments later the priest walked in.

  ‘Oh, hello Father Connelly,’ she said weakly.r />
  ‘Hello, Mrs O’Reilly. How are you today?’ he said, walking over to stand by the bed.

  ‘Not too good. What’s all that noise outside? You would think people might have more respect when someone’s at the end of their life.’

  ‘Anna was telling me downstairs that the teenagers have organised the residents into two teams. They’re going to have a race to see who can build a snowman the fastest.’

  ‘A race? In the garden?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Help me up!’ she said, tugging at the bedclothes.

  ‘Oh,’ said the priest, suddenly uncomfortable and already backing away. ‘I’ll find a carer.’

  ‘There’s no time. We’ll miss the start.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry, Father,’ she said, wriggling her legs towards the edge of the bed and trying to sit up. ‘I don’t think the sight of my body in a nightdress will send you to the wrong place! It’s only a sin if you enjoy it.’

  The old woman was suddenly gripped by such a fit of laughing that the top set of her false teeth shot out. The priest, although middle-aged, had been a very keen rugby player in his youth and without any conscious thought he caught them in mid-air. She shrieked at the sight and fell back onto the mattress, her frail arms beating the duvet in delight.

  ‘You’ll be the downfall of me yet, Mrs O’Reilly,’ he said, looking at the warm, moist object in his hand and wishing he hadn’t reacted so automatically. ‘Perhaps you would like these back?’

  It took quite a bit of pulling and pushing to manoeuvre the old woman into a position where he could put a dressing gown around her, although actually getting her into it proved too difficult.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. Get me over to that chair by the window. A race!’ she said excitedly, as he manhandled her across the room. ‘Are they taking bets? Which team is your money on?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not gambling on the outcome. It’s just a bit of fun.’

  ‘So is betting!’

  Once she was deposited in the chair, he brought over a blanket and put it around her.

  ‘There you are, Father. I’m warm and you’re safe from temptation!’ She quickly assessed the people below. ‘Ten pounds on the right-hand team.’

  ‘Mrs O’Reilly! I couldn’t possibly gamble with you for money. I’m surprised that you’re even suggesting such a wicked thing.’

  ‘How about a bottle of gin, then?’

  ‘A full bottle of Gordon’s?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re on,’ he said, sitting in the chair beside her.

  * * *

  ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ said Joyce, admiring how the thick snow had formed intricate shapes over the various objects it covered. She was on Dorothy’s side, each team having been allocated its own section of garden.

  ‘It is lovely, though I wish we could get moving,’ said Dorothy, rubbing her hands together.

  ‘Right!’ shouted Ben, as if he had heard her. ‘I want a good clean race with no cheating, stealing or hindering of the opposite team. Anyone found in breach of these rules will not get a piece of the excellent carrot cake that I spotted earlier in the kitchen. Three . . . two . . . one.’

  When he blew his whistle, the students were instantly a whirlwind of activity. However, if the residents couldn’t match them for speed they were equally as focused. While the teenagers in Miss Ross’s team started rolling an increasingly large ball of snow to create the body, Meg and Peg began making the head, handing over to others as soon as they tired. Those in Dorothy’s team were rapidly building a mound, wildly throwing shovelfuls of snow, which the older members were patting and moulding with their hands.

  In the conservatory the audience were as caught up as those outside and there was plenty of cheering and shouts of encouragement. Mr Forsyth and Beatrice, hand in hand on the settee, cried out as enthusiastically as anyone.

  With so many involved, the snowmen quickly grew in size, although their different constructions made them appear completely unalike. The mound took shape faster and soon reached the stage where Angus could push in a couple of walking sticks to create arms. Mrs Butterworth fitted woollen mittens on the ends and when the head was added Joyce took out a brown wig from her coat pocket and placed it on top.

  ‘I recognise that,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘Shh, don’t say anything. I’ll return it to Beatrice before she knows.’

  Angus had brought a bishop from the chess set in the lounge as a nose. As he was trying to fit this – the flat base making the task more difficult than he had expected – an assortment of other items were added and the snowman was rapidly adorned with a large red scarf, a flat cap, a knitting bag and a pair of spectacles over two dark-blue coat button eyes.

  Although they couldn’t hear her through the double glazing, Mrs O’Reilly, now on the verge of hysteria, was shouting for all she was worth. The priest was not far behind her in this. Anna, a short way down the corridor, had to lean against a wall for support because she was laughing so much at the noises coming from the old woman’s bedroom.

  Across the garden Miss Ross was urging on her team as if she was once again a teacher overseeing the school’s sports day. Joan was bent over, about to roll their snowman’s head just a few more times before it was lifted into place, when a snowball hit her squarely on the bottom.

  ‘Hoy! Who did that that?’ she shouted, turning around and glaring at the opposing team. Everyone seemed busy and no one paid her any attention. She had just bent down again when another missile hit her in exactly the same spot. Mrs O’Reilly, seeing everything clearly from her vantage point, clapped her hands in glee. Joan swung around and her eye was immediately drawn to Joyce, who was bent over double.

  ‘You! I’ll . . .’

  Joan didn’t finish her sentence. Instead she quickly made a snowball and hurled it. Despite the size of the target, it hit Angus full on the chest. He stepped back in surprise, searching for the source.

  ‘We’re under attack!’ he cried.

  The audience in the conservatory was making so much noise shouting and banging whatever they could grab that Matron came along from her office to investigate.

  ‘Give them a broadside,’ cried Mr Adams. ‘Give them a broadside.’

  ‘This is even better than milking cows,’ said Mr Forsyth, smiling fondly at Beatrice.

  Everyone in Dorothy’s team stopped what they were doing and made a snowball.

  ‘On my command,’ shouted Angus. ‘Take aim . . .’

  Only Joan and Miss Ross had spotted the immediate danger and both turned their backs just as the order was given.

  ‘Fire!’

  The other group were so engrossed in the race that they were completely unprepared for the attack. Angus, now totally swept up in the moment and perhaps having read a few too many novels about British Redcoats during the eighteenth century, called out again.‘Reload!’

  Miss Ross’s team were now desperately fighting back, but their efforts were piecemeal and, as the enemies of the British army had discovered so long ago, this was ineffective against coordinated volley fire.

  ‘Take aim! Fire!’

  Ben started blowing his whistle.

  ‘Stop. Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Penalty to Dorothy’s side. No more throwing.’

  Everyone was now armed, old and young alike grinning and panting, their rapid breaths condensing immediately in the frosty air. They paused to look at the carer. He saw their expressions change as the same idea swept through them all and each person turned to face him.

  ‘No! That’s not fair!’ he shouted, just managing to add, ‘There’ll be no cake for anyone,’ before he was hit by around two dozen snowballs.

  Fifty Seven

  The snowmen, although a little grubby, were still standing at the end of the following week (Beatrice’s wig having long since been returned safely). The conversations that Saturday were nearly all related to the impending ‘Storm Tegan’ which was ex
pected to hit Scotland during the night.

  Although such events were hardly unusual in the Highlands, this was being portrayed as potentially dangerous and after supper most people gathered in front of the television to hear the latest news updates. When the coverage had finished, Angus turned down the sound.

  ‘When I was young, nobody gave names to a bit of wind,’ said Mrs Butterworth, sounding unusually indignant.

  ‘I suppose it’s progress,’ said Mrs MacDonald.

  ‘It’s meant to help people prepare,’ said Miss Ross.

  ‘But how does calling a storm something do that?’ asked Mrs Butterworth. ‘It’s not going to blow any less.’

  ‘Couldn’t we choose something,’ said Dorothy, ‘then send it to the appropriate person? I’m sure Matron would know who.’

  ‘It always seems to be a first name,’ pointed out Joyce.

  ‘That’s no reason why we can’t set a new trend,’ said Joan. ‘We could have . . . Storm Miss Ross!’

  This caused considerable laughter, including from the retired headmistress. She was not against being teased, up to a point anyway.

  ‘Or we could have Storm Joyce,’ said Mr Adams, who then pretended to be a news reader. ‘A big front is moving from the west, heading along the corridor and expected to arrive in the lounge at any moment!’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare say that if you were sitting nearer,’ said the large woman, shaking her fist. However, she had seen far too much in her life to be offended by a bit of leg-pulling and laughed as much as anyone.

  ‘It’s a sort of health-and-safety issue,’ said Miss Ross, unable to resist the urge to pass on knowledge.

  ‘Not more health and safety,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘By identifying impending storms with a title, the Met Office hopes to make the public more aware of potential dangers. The names have already been chosen for several months ahead.’